


Relaxation Techniques

by Minxie



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-14
Updated: 2010-08-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 02:29:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minxie/pseuds/Minxie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the after concert phone call takes a rather heated turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relaxation Techniques

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the mood for porn, so yeah, the plot is a very slippery thing in this one. Set directly after the Erie, PA GlamNation show and follows [Swords as Accessories](http://archiveofourown.org/works/106440) in what has seemingly become my Bradam playground of choice.
> 
> *smackles* to Red and SunShinyDay for the beta reads!

"Hey." Adam grins and scoots a little further down on the bed, mentally forcing the nervous tics from the adrenaline high out of his system.

"Hey. How was the show?" Like always, there's a tinny quality skewing Brad's voice into an almost but not quite there facsimile of the real thing. "Leave 'em all wet and screaming for more?"

Adam chuckles softly. "Nah. That only seems to happen when I'm talking to you."

"Bastard."

The teasing tone of Brad's voice has Adam's grin widening.

"Really, how was it?"

"Encored with _20th Century Boy_."

"Yeah?" The sounds of Brad settling, the rustling of sheets and the low squeak of his mattress fills in the gaps between words. "And how'd that go?"

Adam flops onto his back, throws one hand over his eyes and tries to picture each moment of the encore again. And then he winces. "Could have been better."

Brad huffs and then sighs. "You say that about every performance."

"Must be true then."

"Baby."

The word is filled with exasperation and, knowing what one of Brad's lectures is like, Adam relents. "Crowd seemed to enjoy it."

"So you _did_ leave them wet and screaming."

And Adam laughs again. Smug Brad is amusing. Always has been.

"Laugh all you want, Lambert, but I am so looking up the vid of that before bed tonight."

"You still do that?" Adam shakes his head, a little amazed and a little embarrassed and a whole lot pleased. "Figured you'd be bored with it by now. Not like much ever changes."

"Please. It's the only way I can catch even a glimpse of your dick from three thousand miles away."

Spluttering, Adam chokes out one, near scandalized word. "Brad!"

A completely unrepentant _What?_ echoes in Adam's ear.

"You can't see my dick..."

"The hell. Your dick is practically showcased in those fucking pants you wear."

Adam can feel the blush stealing up and over his cheeks. Fuck. "Come on, baby. I didn't call..."

"Matter of fact – "

And Adam rolls his eyes because, of course, Brad decides to talk right over him.

" – I'd bet good money, _my_ money, that it's pretty much being showcased right now."

Adam has no response for that. Because, yeah, his dick is hard and tenting the loose sleep pants he donned after his shower. Thanks so fucking much, goddammit.

"Is it, Adam?"

The sultry, low hum of Brad talking, of Brad talking about dick, but especially about _Adam's_ dick, has Adam biting down on his lip, muting his groan to whispered gurgle.

"Oh, yeah," Brad murmurs and Adam knows the groan, no matter how quiet, had been heard. "The thought of me watching old vids every night, picturing your dick is making you wet."

Adam drops a hand down and, through pants damp with sweat and precome, palms the heavy length of his cock. "Fuck!"

Something between a dirty chuckle and heartfelt moan barely covers the sound Brad's panting, of his body shifting and turning. Adam closes his eyes and pictures Brad, naked and sweaty and just plain fucking needy and wanton on the verge of begging to be fucked.

"Baby." Adam shoves his hand beneath the elastic waistband of his pants, works the pants over and past his dick, and dances feather-light, teasing touches over his hip and groin. Because if he's doing – and, _Jesus_fuck, he's obviously doing this – he's going to take his time, draw it out. Maximum pleasure is the goal.

"Tell me, Adam. Tell me what it does to you knowing that every fucking night I find a vid of you and, while I'm watching you roll your hips in those fuck me pants and aching for the maddening little peeks of your bare feet, I wrap my hand around my dick, stroking and teasing and pretending it's you until finally, when my hand comes up and twists, gives me that dance along the edge of pleasure and pain, I come..."

"Fuck, Brad..."

"Tell me." And then a breathy beat later, "Please."

"I can't stop thinking about you. I'll be on stage and..." Adam's fingers close around the base of his dick and he stumbles over the words "... and... I lose it. I forget where I am and what line comes next. And right at that moment I'd give anything to be in bed with you, buried so fucking deep in your ass that.... _fuck_ ... that..."

"That you can't tell where you end and I begin," Brad finishes with a whisper. "I know, baby."

A noise bubbles out of Adam, raspy and guttural, and he tightens his grip, banking his need to come minutely. And then he starts stroking again. Long, slow pulls from the base of his dick to the head, thumb swiping over his slit, through the slick of precome, and then back down.

"And then, for the rest of the night, every time I close my eyes I see you, spread out on our bed..." – and, _goddammit_, how he misses _their_ bed, because even though they're together again, back to being two parts of a whole, Adam still hasn't been back to their bed.

"Am I begging you for it? Begging you to fuck me? To bite me?"

"God, yes." Adam's mind supplies the pictures, flashes of all the times Brad _had_ begged. He keeps his hand moving with a certain rhythm, a steady cadence that lets the fire in his belly build slowly, working its way through him. Consuming him. "Big brown eyes all fucking hazy and blown wide."

"Come on, Adam." Brad's voice hitches, breaks on Adam's name.

The orgasm that Adam had managed to stave off rushes through him, fire reaching the flash point and exploding without warning. With his toes curling in the sheets and back arching against the mattress, his dick pulses once, twice, a third time, covering his hand in sticky, moist heat.

And beneath the pounding in his ears, the fog of post-orgasm white noise and the thumping reverberations of his heartbeat, Adam hears Brad gasp – _fuck, Adam_ – and then groan. Tell-tale sounds that Brad is in the same condition as Adam: sated and covered in come.

Their breaths mingle, harsh and heavy and grasping for acclimatization. And then Adam whispers, "Brad?"

"Yeah."

"Not that I'm complaining..." 'Cause really he isn't. Not complaining at all. "But what the fuck?"

Brad snorts and asks, "You feeling better now? Ready to relax?"

He thinks about it. Rolls his shoulders and flexes his toes and finally, when he finds that all the kinks are missing, he grins. "Yeah, but how'd..."

"I know you, baby." That smug, pleased tone is back in Brad's voice. "And you owe me four little words."

Relaxed and boneless, Adam giggles. "Brad always knows best."

Brad mutters, "Damn right," and then chuckles. "Now, go get cleaned up and get some sleep."

Adam hums and nods and then slurs out, "Call me tomorrow?"

"Every tomorrow."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Then Brad adds, "G'night, baby."

"Goodnight." And Adam waits until Brad hangs up, until the fast buzzing of a disconnect sounds in his ear, to murmur, "Love you."

* ♥ *

.


End file.
